There is an awkwardness with comes with grief. People want to
comfort with words. Example: you will find a new normal, he is in a better place,
the worry is gone, he is at peace now, God has him. All of these words true and
their intent is to comfort. Caverns that can't be filled with words.
Most of us don’t know how to comfort others. When compassion turns to empathy, through
experience, that’s where the true connection is. I wouldn’t wish this
experience on my worst enemy. I don’t blame others for not knowing what to
say. To many times I have been without comforting words.
A page on FB, posts meaningful and beautiful quotes. It is
uplifting and focuses on the positive. The
quote this morning was this:
“Grief, I’ve learned is really just love. It’s all the love
you want to give, but cannot. All of that unspent love gathers in in the
corners of eyes, the lump in your throat, and in the hollow part of your
chest. Grief is just love with no place
to go.” (Jamie Anderson)
Before, I would have shed some tears over these beautiful
words. They are meant to uplift, put a
positive spin on grief. I don’t know the
grief she experienced to write those words, but for me they don’t work. Doesn’t make me right or her wrong. Love is why we
grieve, why we mourn so heavily after losing a loved one. Love has a place to go, I take him with me everywhere, carried in the anchor necklace I wear around my neck.
Let’s be honest. There is nothing positive
about grief. Losing my son has brought
me to my knees. My chest isn’t hollow. It is filled with pressure, a scream that if ever released, will echo through every corner, until my voice is gone. The anxiety,
the internal shaking. This physical separation, to high of a price to pay. Sixty days without him. The worry is gone, replaced with a cavern so
deep, the pressure keeps building.
The truth is, grief drains you. It takes every cell in your
body and turns it red hot. Shaking from the inside out, sometimes its visible,
other times you can feel it pulse. The pain waits for you as you shop for
groceries, clean the house, work, meet a friend for lunch. Then it hits. You go
back to day one after being told that a piece of your heart died on a bathroom floor,
alone. His only company, a needle in his
arm.
I push it down when I am at work or in a public setting. I
have turned into a liar, telling others I am OK. At times, I am frozen, no feelings at all.
I’m expected to get back out there, move on, find my new
normal, smile, fake it ‘til I make it. Life goes on. People I love, I want to be fully engaged with. I feel myself withdrawing, pushing down, not
wanting to “bring others down.” I don't sleep much, I wake often in tears.
I don’t blame friends for avoiding me, in the store or
anywhere else. What the hell do you say
to a barely, upright mother? Do my eyes tell the truth, of how this thread I’m
holding on to, is close to breaking?
Everyone tells me I am strong, I know the
truth. They don’t hear the scream and feel the pressure because I hide it. I’m broken glass, shattered in a million pieces. How those pieces go back together, only time will tell. I'm exhausted trying to make them fit like they use to.
Being seen by others, not avoided, is so very appreciated. Those that reach out
and make a point to say hello, give me a sense of normalcy for a few minutes and
strengthens the thread.
Grief. I am looking forward to the day it doesn’t consume me.
Other mothers in this club we never willingly joined, teach me to stay upright, show me
this is survivable. I just need to figure out how.
Stacey Hedrick
Mother of Parker James Kelly 2/20/1996 – 11/11/2018
#PJKALLDAY
#DONTSTOPBELIEVING
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